Legends of the Four
by SlytherinPsyche
Summary: A tale of love, lust, betrayal, disappointment, hatred, life, and death; namely, the Hogwarts founders. How did Rowena, Salazar, Godric and Helga unite to make the greatest school of magic in Britian? And what was the big secret that tore them apart?
1. An Introduction of All Sorts

_ A future was lost yesterday  
as easily and irretrievably  
as a tennis ball at twilight._  
~ Sylvia Plath, _April 18_  
**  
  
CHAPTER ONE  
_An Introduction of All Sorts _**

  
Being a real witch during the tenth century was not something that Rowena Partholain particularly enjoyed, nor did her female status bring her much satisfaction. The reasons for these disappointments were due to the fact that that was the beginning of the age of witch persecutions and the case of women not being given much credit by the Catholic Church. 

In fact, if someone reported to a local authority that they had seen some suspicious activity (preferably witchcraft) around the area of a woman's residence, she would immediately be dragged out of her home and if she were lucky, would be presented with a trial as to whether she really _ was_ a witch or not. Most of the time, the outcome was not favourable for the victim and she was consequently burnt at the stake infront of the village crowd, whether there was any valid proof or not. 

Rowena herself had come close to being discovered and burnt when her closest neighbour, the extremely sly and nosy Gretorix MacSpallane, had once spotted a birthmark shaped like an bird in flight on her neck during an amorous conversation between himself and Rowena, in which he attempted to persuade her to become his wife even though, according to the Church, women were the bane of humanity. 

Rowena was perhaps the most beautiful woman in the little hamlet of Mulfaver with her curling chestnut hair, sapphire blue eyes and creamy skin, and one of the very few left. Most of the unmarried females had either been drowned in the village pond or burnt at the stake in the village square because they had been accused of witchcraft and none of them, Rowena suspected, had had any knowledge of magic at all. 

So, of course, as the men of the village grew older they began to surreptitiously search for a young maiden to marry, simply for the reason of having a personal servant who would fulfill their selfish demands. And because Rowena was known to be the prettiest and most capable of all the women left, she was the object of desire for many suitors who were all ugly, uncouth and old. 

Naturally, Rowena refused every proposal they offered her and soon became the most disagreeable woman of the village, in the opinion of the men. But one day, Gretorix MacSpallane decided to have his chance with Rowena after a very long and impatient period of waiting. 

It was a fairly cloudy afternoon on which he plucked up his courage and strode boldly out of his front door, confident that he would be coming back a soon-to-be-married man.  


The clouds overhead were dark and gloomy, exactly matching Rowena's mood as she sat slumped over her kitchen table, staring glumly into the quietly crackling fire. 

She was quite poor and had no way of earning money, both her parents being dead from an epidemic earlier on in the year. She could not continue her father's business as he was a smith and there was nobody who would teach her the mastery of the smith, and even if there was someone it was too inappropriate an occupation for a young lady. She had also contemplated selling the fruit and vegetables that her garden provided her with, but there was barely enough to feed herself, let alone another person. 

Hence Rowena lived in constant poverty and hunger, dressing in the same drab clothing and fixing her own shoes when the soles had been worn away. She did not mix much with the rest of the villagers, but kept to her house and tended her garden, absorbing herself in the ancient scrolls of writing her father had left her in his death. 

Rowena thrived on knowledge; she couldn't bear stupid people and despised foolishness. Everything she did was performed in a careful and methodical manner, although she did make mistakes, like every other human being. And she always berated herself every time, even if they were the most minor errors. She never shifted the blame for anything on her parents, however, as some Muggle-born witches and wizards who resented their parentage were wont to do. 

Both Mr and Mrs Partholain had been non-magic folk and seemingly two of the most ordinary you could ever find. They did not know about Rowena's magic because she never performed it infront of them and she never told them about it, for fear of their love not stretching to accomodate something they were unable to do and could not understand. 

The only unusual thing about her parents was the large amount of scrolls they had collected and left for Rowena at their death, along with their shabby house and its belongings. They did not make much money before their death, but had been able to have proper meals and a new piece of clothing now and then. But now that the smithy had been closed at the deaths of the elderly Partholains, Rowena was thinner than she had ever been before, not to mention sadder. 

And marriage was most certainly the last thing on her mind that day. 

As soon as Gretorix MacSpallane reached the Partholain house, he brushed the dust off his ugly brown coat, straightened the collar of his coarse grey shirt, smoothed his greasy greying hair, and thundered on the door with his knuckles.  


Inside the house, Rowena sighed in frustration and thumped her fist on the table, cursing whoever it was that was trying to break down her door. She stood up from her chair and strode briskly across the room, flinging open the door and fixing a frown on her face when she registered who was standing before her.  


Gretorix's face split into a licentious grin as his eyes travelled over Rowena's body from her tousled hair to her bare feet and back again. 

"May I help you, Mr MacSpallane?" asked Rowena through gritted teeth. 

"Oh yes, Miss Partholain, you most certainly can help me!" laughed Gretorix. "Why don't I just step inside, hmmm?" 

"Actually, why don't you just stay _outside_? Your sordid proposals are not welcome under my roof, and neither are you, for that matter!" 

But Gretorix only laughed again. "Oh, how I love difficult women! It always gives me ever so much pleasure to see them eventually bend to my will. I quite understand that you desperately want me but find it too hard to admit, and I can help you in that aspect if you so wish ... " 

"_Go away_, you boastful cretin! I don't want anything to do with you, and if I were stupid enough to desperately want you, I'd have drowned myself in the village pond!" snapped Rowena heatedly, tossing her hair off her shoulders. 

At this comment, Gretorix's smile faded and his eyes darkened showing his anger. "I think you'd be a little bit more grateful for my offer of marriage, Rowena. It's time you settled down, and you should believe yourself to be lucky that I've still come for your hand, what with all the men you've - " He suddenly stopped, his eyes widening as they stared at a place on Rowena's neck. 

"Wh - what is th - that?" he squeaked, pointing at a bird-shaped birthmark on the side of her neck. 

Too late, Rowena realised that she had bared one of the things that could easily betray her. Birthmarks, freckles and warts were at that time considered as evidence of amorous relations with the devil and would therefore give the authorities the right to condemn the transgressor to a suitable punishment - namely, death.  


Rowena hastily covered the offending item with her hair and smiled sweetly at Gretorix who seemed transfixed to the spot where he was standing. "It's nothing, Gretorix. Nothing at all, and don't you worry your head about it. Erm ... would you like to come inside?" Rowena offered, pleasantly. 

"I wouldn't come inside if you begged me on your knees, you - you _ witch_! That's a birthmark on your neck, that is, and God knows what you'd be brewing in that run-down hut of yours. And to think that I wanted to marry you!" gabbled Gretorix shakily. "I'll tell everyone! I'll tell the whole village and then you'll be burnt at the stake, you devil-worshipper!" 

And off he ran back down the road towards the village square without looking back, screeching, "Witch! Partholain witch!" at the top of his lungs. 

Rowena stared at his retreating back in horror, cursing her own folly. How could she have been so stupid as to toss her hair off her shoulders? Well, if Gretorix came back with the entire village carrying torches and pitchforks, ready to execute her themselves, then it would serve her right.  


She slammed the door shut and bolted it fast, grabbing her only cloak from the hook next to the door and flinging it onto the kitchen table. 

Pacing infront of the fire, Rowena tried to get her thoughts in order. If Gretorix was a fast runner then he would be back with reinforcements in due time, all of whom would be delighted to see what they termed to be justice, even if it was to be administered on the woman more than three quarters of the village had courted. But if she escaped now and ran fast, she wouldn't be caught by them and she would be free. 

But the question was: where would she go? Rowena had no living relations that she knew of and no friends residing anywhere nearby; in fact, she didn't have any friends at all! She had always been too consumed in her father's old scrolls to bother with making friends because she felt that the ancient scribblings were the best friends any person could have. But she knew very well that writing could not save her now. 

The only option that remained was the supposedly haunted wood on the outskirts of Mulfaver which everyone always travelled around and not through, because of the evil spirits rumoured to be residing in it. But it would have to do, unless Rowena had a sudden wish for her bones to become ashes, which she certainly did not. 

And so, taking a log from the pile next to the ancient fireplace and lighting it with the flames, she threw it at the far wall where an extremely worn-out and ragged tapestry hung. It was instantly set alight, the flames licking away at the cloth and the wood under it.  


_I'll be damned before I let any of those bastards touch my property,_ thought Rowena as she threw a few more logs into various corners of the room before snatching her cloak, putting it on and hurrying out of the back door into the night. 

  
**~ ~ ~**

  
While Rowena was sprinting madly towards Mulfaver Wood, Helga Turnlovey lounged in a plush velvet armchair in the dusty library of Winthroe Castle, fully emersed in _The Rose of the Rounde Table, _ a somewhat fictional account of the tragic wizarding romance between Lancelot, one of King Arthur's knights, and Guinevere, Arthur's wife.  


It was the only love story that Helga could find in the library of Godric Winthroe's home. She supposed it used to belong to Godric's long-deceased mother, Lady Eleanora, because of the note on the gilt cover of the book, written in very fancy writing with such honest love that made Helga's eyes leak with admiration:

_To my dearest wife Eleanora,_  
_ May this book bring you as much joy as your love brought to me. _  
_ It is but a mere hint of my own adoration and devotion to your blessed self. _  
_ Keep it in memory of me,_  
_ your ever-loving husband, _  
_ Godfrey Winthroe III._

Helga sniffed self-pityingly as she read over the dedication again. Would anyone ever write her something like that? Would anyone even _think_ of giving her a book as a token of their affection? _Probably not, _she thought morosely. _ For who would ever love a boring old maid like me?  
_

Of course, Helga was not boring nor old, and not even ugly. She had formed this opinion of herself owing to the fact that petite dark-haired witches, all mysterious and foreign-looking, were the preference of wizards at that time. And Helga, with her fiery red curls, warm brown eyes and full figure, was usually dismissed as a dull-witted peasant lookalike, although she was of noble birth and had quite an inheritance under her name.   
  
But unfortunately for Helga, buxom, red-haired, brown-eyed maidens were not the vogue then, and Helga had had quite a miserable courting period, which was technically nonexistent due to the lack of suitors pleading for her hand in marriage.   
  
Now if only she were dark-haired and svelte like the beautiful Guinevere depicted on the front cover of the book, who was lying in Lancelot's arms looking deathly pale, her long dark hair falling in cascades down her back. Then she wouldn't be constantly rejected by men and she'd get rid of those damned freckles that had very nearly cost her her life.   
  
It had happened five months ago, when Helga had a brief encounter with death. She had lived in the center of a sleepy town - Sulvanny - in Turnlovey Hall, the home her father had left her at his death from wizarding cancer, being 153 years of age at the time. The persecution of witches had not yet begun in Sulvanny, for which Helga and her elderly mother, Florensa, were very grateful.   
  
But as with all areas of the British Isles, Sulvanny soon succumbed to the terror and chaos that pervaded many other towns in Britian. And Helga was one of the last women of Sulvanny to be accused of witchcraft, as most of them had already been burnt brutally at the stake, and the Turnlovey name was not then sullied by suspicion and commanded some respect.  
  
But when news of freckles, birthmarks and warts being proof of sorcery reached the ears of Sulvanny's townspeople, any last signs of sleepiness vanished and a new force of righteous tyranny drove the inhabitants to purge the town of all who fitted the description of Satan's helpers.  
  
Helga had watched, nervously hiding her freckles, as woman after woman, young and old, was convicted of the same crime as the one before her. Each was burnt, screaming for mercy, at the stake in the town square before a roaring crowd of men, who would feel no anxiousness about themselves simply because they were men and therefore, the Catholic Church's favourite sex.  
  
And one day, it became Helga's turn to experience firsthand the terror of knowing that there was nothing that could save you from death that had not decided to come early, but was forced to.  
  
It was after morning tea time, and Helga was knitting in one of the two drawing rooms of Turnlovey Hall on that fateful day, when several loud knocks were administered to the front door, demanding her attention. The butler, who was a wizard himself, had come running in, terrified, after he had answered the door and spoken with the authorities waiting to drag Helga out of her home and to the stake, if possible so soon.  
  
And drag her they did, as Helga screamed, kicked and scratched the men with her nails, all the way to court where she was given a very short trial in which she screamed some more and called the judge a "repulsive stinking codfish" and was instantly ordered to the stake.   
  
And Helga, entirely losing her mind, whipped out her wand and was on the verge of Stunning every single person in the room when the judge, a wizard who had abandoned the magical life, ordered her to his private chamber and led her out the back way so she could escape without being seen.   
  
The judge's motives behind this were not that he had fallen in love with Helga's beauty and desired to save her from a terrible fate, nor did he pity her any more than he did his other victims who were all either burned or drowned. He saved Helga's life out of concern for his own self who would be blamed for everything that would ensue if Muggles actually saw Helga do magic with an adult wizard (no matter if he had abandoned his wizarding life) in the same room.   
  
And when Helga bolted out the door of his chamber, he promptly hit himself over the head with a paperweight from his desk and collapsed on the floor, unconscious, as though it were all Helga's doing.   
  
And thus, Helga evaded death. She deserted Turnlovey Hall and fled with her mother to Atlindle, which was Mrs Turnlovey's private estate. After notifying Godric, who had been Helga's playmate from her birth, she shifted to Winthroe Castle (leaving her mother at the woman's request). Godric firmly insisted that she live in the safety of his isolated home which was only visible to the eye of a magical being. So she took up residence at the castle with Godric and his terribly flirtacious and very pretty sister, Georgiana, whom Helga immediately took a dislike to.   
  
It would be false to say that Georgiana seriously minded about Helga's disfavour towards her, because Georgiana was not at all bothered about it. In her opinion, Helga was definitely a "boring old maid" who didn't know "how to flaunt her looks" and who "wasted her time on books and day-dreams when she could be ensnaring men instead". And so Helga and Georgiana dutifully avoided each other's company whenever possible, and ignored each other whenever it wasn't.   
  
While Helga lived in Winthroe Castle, it would have been expected and acceptable if a romantic interest had sparked up between Godric and herself, but what really happened was quite the contrary. Of course, Helga _had_ developed a certain fondness for Godric that stretched beyond the boundaries of friendship.   
  
But when, just a few days ago, he had told her that he thought of her as no more than a sister (having found out about her amorous prospects for him from Georgiana), she realised that all those weeks of trying to catch Godric's eye and seem extraordinarily pleasant and pretty were wasted. She then reverted to losing herself in worlds where she could forget about her grievances and pry into someone else's life. That is to say, she read books.   
  
The castle's library was packed with them but was fairly dusty because of the deficiency of visitors interested in its ancient tomes. Both Godric and Georgiana did not experience excitement about reading - Godric being a man of action, and Georgiana not very literate.  
  
So Helga spent hours, day after day, in the stuffy library of the castle, reading book after book of stories by wizarding authors of terrifying horror tales that kept her looking over her shoulder for insane murderers. Books of magical adventures in far away lands, of chivalrous deeds committed by brave knights, and ancient books of lore and legend that wholly mystified Helga no matter how many times she read through them.   
  
But on this particular day, it was a book of romance that caught her attention, and she had been reading it for quite some time, eyes regularly clouding over with tears of pity, understanding, appreciation, and frustration, when a strong masculine shout drifted into the room.  
  
"Helga! Where in hell are you? _Helga!_"  
  
Placing a bookmark on the page she had been reading, Helga sighed and called out, "I'm in the library, Godric!"  
  
Soon she heard the tell-tale _thump, thump, thump_ of boots echoing in the hallway outside the library and seconds later, Godric's head appeared around the door, his face breaking into a grin as he registered Helga curled up in an armchair beside the fire, feet tucked neatly under her. "Sticking your nose in the books again, eh?" he said, his brilliant green eyes twinkling.  
  
Helga bristled in vexation at this comment, as she always did when her appearance was mentioned in even the subtlest way. "For your information, they are extremely interesting and if I were you - "  
  
"Which you are not, thankfully."  
  
" - I would be sticking my nose in them too. They _are_ your legacy and you ought to know your own property, Godric."  
  
The black-haired man shook his head and sighed in exasperation. "Let's not turn this into a lecture about all my faults, shall we? I'd much rather ask you on the whereabouts of our _dear_ delayed friend, Salazar."  
  
"Oh Godric, he's probably just being held up for some reason. You know that he's always got many things to do, what with all that property he owns. Give the man some pity!"  
  
"_Pity! _Why should I pity him? He's devastatingly wealthy and could have any woman begging for him in under a minute! And anyway, you _know_ that he doesn't like being pitied, Helga. He's the kind of man who wouldn't accept pity if he was within an inch of death! And it's already been half an hour since our designated time. I'd say that this is not even _fashionably_ late, as he likes to call it. If he's not here by seven o'clock then he'd better have a bloody good reason for it."  
  
Helga stretched lazily like a cat and yawned unceremoniously. She had long since abandoned all formalities and coyness with Godric; he was now no more than a brother to her, and she had absolutely no intention of starting any romance between them, as it had failed miserably before. He was her primary confidante, always had been, and she was enormously grateful that nothing had changed between them due to their short-lived love affair. _ More like nonexistent_, thought Helga.  
  
"Georgiana's been after him for weeks!" said Godric, jostling Helga out of her thoughts.  
  
"Him, who?" asked Helga irritably. She always assumed an irritated tone of voice whenever Godric's sister was mentioned.  
  
Godric shot her an exasperated look and rolled his eyes. "Salazar, of course! Who did you think, Arthur of Camelot?"  
  
"Well I wouldn't put it past Georgiana to raise the dead just so she could amuse herself with them."  
  
"Ha! She can barely make a Forgetfulness Potion! And she'd probably go off to powder her nose before she was even through _ one_ stage of the necromancy process."  
  
"Sometimes I wonder if she isn't a - a - " faltered Helga, "what is it you call a wizard who can't do magic?"  
  
"A Squib, oh lovely being of no memory!"  
  
"Well, sometimes I wonder if she isn't a Squib - what a vulgar word! - because of her poor abilities in magic," said Helga, ignoring Godric's previous comment.  
  
"Hey, there's always the Muggle cabarets in France!" quipped Godric. "She ought to fit right in, and then I'd get free favours from her - ah - co-workers."  
  
"Ugh! At times like these I couldn't think of more repulsive creatures than men," sniffed Helga.   
  
Godric eyed her expectantly, a grin creeping around his face.  
  
"Oh, all right, all right. Yes, I can't help but be fascinated about what goes on in them taverns. What an exotic life those girls must lead!" said Helga almost wistfully, as Godric collapsed into a chair in gales of laughter. "And what is so funny, may I ask?"  
  
But Godric didn't answer for a while, as laughter kept bubbling up inside him and spilling out of his wide mouth. Finally - "Oh, I just imagined you in one of those costumes that they wear in cabarets. All frills and short skirts and lacy undergarments - "  
  
"Right, that's enough from you!" snapped Helga, a wicked smile threatening to overpower her grimace of revulsion.  
  
Godric smiled nonchalantly and, looking at the gold ornate clock on the mantelpiece under which a fire was burning merrily, he said, "Salazar has fifteen minutes to go before he's an hour late. Honestly, whatever happened to his punctuality?"  
  
Helga yawned again and rearranged herself in her seat. "Leave the man alone, Godric. If he's late, he's late and there's nothing we can do about it. Now I'm going to carry on reading this book, as I was doing before you rudely interrupted me, and I suggest you get acquainted with one or two yourself while we wait for him."  
  
So the heir of Winthroe Castle stood up, randomly chose a book from the shelf nearest him (_Isle of the Sultans_), and stretched out in his crimson velvet armchair, joining in with the tranquillity of the scene.  
  
**~ ~ ~**  
  
At about the same time as Godric stuck his head around the door of the library, Rowena finally entered Mulfaver Wood, snagging the edge of her cloak on a branch to her left. She was quite out of breath and full of hurting joints and muscles, not being used to so much strenuous exercise. So she slowed down to a walk and trudged, gasping and puffing, along the surprisingly well-trodden path that led through the heart of the wood and out into the next town.   
  
The only sounds Rowena could hear in the wood were her own footsteps and ragged breathing; neither birds nor animals were anywhere in sight and there was an eerie gloom all around. She didn't dare take out her wand and cast a spell for light, in case there were any stray Muggles in the wood for some odd reason.  
  
And then she heard the horse.  
  
Actually, it was only the sound of the horse's hooves that resounded throughout the wood but nevertheless, Rowena panicked. What was a horse doing in Mulfaver Wood? They were the main means of Muggle travel at that time and there weren't any wild ones near Mulfaver, as far as she knew. Was it someone from the village coming to find her?   
  
Instantly, her heart quickened its pace though she wasn't moving, and she pricked her ears in the direction of the sound. No, it was coming from the heart of the wood, away from Mulfaver, but it was coming closer to her with every passing second. She looked around wildly for a place to hide but there was none, so she resolved to peeking out from behind a thick oak.  
  
The horse soon reached the clearing Rowena was in and stopped there, to her displeasure. She realised that it had a rider, but she couldn't see his face as he seemed to be swathed in the very shadows themselves. The colour of the horse was such a deep black that it was almost blue, but it was a strangely beautiful animal and Rowena suddenly longed to touch its brilliant mane.  
  
Presently, it spoke ... or so it seemed to Rowena who was mesmerised by its beauty, but it was actually the rider to whom the smooth drawling voice belonged to.  
  
"I know you are hiding somewhere, and I will not go until I have established who you are," the voice said, making Rowena jump and thus reveal her hiding place.  
  
_Not that it _was_ much of a hiding place anyway_, she thought grumpily.  
  
"You know, it's quite ridiculous for you to still hide from me though I know exactly where you are," the man informed Rowena in a mildly amused tone. She was sure it was a man because no woman ever had a voice as low and sensual as that. "I am already quite late for my destination and one of my - _friends_ - would certainly murder me before I had even alighted off my horse, if I were anymore delayed than I already am. Come now, _don't_ make me dismount and drag you out myself."  
  
"How do I know that you're not going to attack me for some obscure reason if I come out?" inquired Rowena boldly, surprising herself.  
  
"Well, judging by the fact that you're apparently still alive, although I know the exact place where you are standing and have an especially sharp dagger on me, _I_ won't attack _you_ unless _you_ attack me first ... _madam_. Now _will _you come out or do I have to fulfill my threat of dragging you out myself?"  
  
Rowena was by now too hypnotised by both the man and his horse to resist the order, and tremblingly stepped forward into the patch of moonlight streaming from the canopy of the wood. She couldn't see the man any better but she understood that his horse was not actually black but midnight blue. And then she realised two more things - that she had never seen a horse like this one before, and that the man sitting astride it must have been very wealthy indeed. Or he could have been a thief.  
  
After a rather long pause, the man asked, "Where are you heading at this late hour? And in those clothes, too ... "  
  
Rowena felt a sharp pang of indignation. So what if her clothes were old and tattered? Her appearance was not the most important thing in the world to her and she wouldn't let this man or anybody make fun of her. "Where I am headed is my own business. And as for my garments ... well, they suit me just fine, thank you very much."  
  
"Good, good. I like passionate women who can defend themselves; if not with a sword, then with the tongue. But even though I am supposed to be cruel and heartless by popular belief, I cannot let you go without knowing exactly where it is you are going."  
  
Touched by the man's concern, Rowena softened; perhaps he could help her find somewhere to stay for the night and then perhaps she could find another village to live in. After all, he had what looked to be a very healthy horse, and she had tired blistered feet. She sighed wearily. "To be honest, I don't really have any idea about where I'm going - "  
  
"Then it can't have been a very well-planned expedition," interjected the man.  
  
" - and I was planning on sleeping in this wood - "  
  
"Which wouldn't be a terribly good idea considering your condition, not to mention the reputation of this place."  
  
" - but I will decide to change my mind if you would help me. And I _don't_ appreciate being interrupted!" finished Rowena angrily.   
  
And it was a few seconds before she registered that the man was laughing at her. The nerve of him! Why, Rowena could easily hex him and his devastatingly beautiful horse into oblivion if she wanted to! But somehow, the thought didn't really appeal to her at that moment and her anger abated slowly, as she watched the blue sheen of the horse's silky coat travel around the side of its body that was facing her.  
  
"There's a little village just a little way out of this wood - Mulfaver, I believe - and if you like, I could drop you off there," suggested the man.  
  
"No! There's a - a - a witchhunt going on there right now! And I don't think the villagers would take kindly to an interruption on so lovely a horse. They might think that you used sorcery of the wickedest kind to enchant the beast."  
  
"Ah yes, _Minuit_ is a rather handsome animal. The horses of the _Nuit Foncée_ breed are very rare and therefore difficult to come by. My ancestors, however, have had a claim on them for generations and this one was passed on to me at the death of my father. And it's quite fortunate that I don't have any siblings, otherwise there would have been a most bitter feud, and all because of a pretty horse," explained the man.   
  
If anything, he sounded quite proud and boastful of the legacy he inherited. But anyone would be proud to own an animal like that, as Rowena reminded herself. Then, a thought popped up in her mind. "_ Minuit_ ," (the horse turned its head towards her), "that is a foreign word, is it not?"  
  
"Indeed. French for midnight, and quite an appropriate name, eh?"  
  
Rowena nodded silently. Yes, the man was definitely very rich and probably came from a very old distinguished family. That is, if he wasn't lying. But if he was, then he was awfully good at it because it sounded so plausible and Rowena believed every word.   
  
"Now, enough of this! I don't even know your name and here we are, in the thick of a supposedly haunted wood, talking about my family!" the man snorted. "How - "  
  
"Positively delightful!" filled in Rowena truthfully.   
  
The man contemplated her for a moment then shook his head, clearly amused. "Tell me, you wouldn't happen to be the witch that was supposed to be burnt in Mulfaver tonight?"   
  
Rowena blanched.   
  
"As I thought. Really, madam, you are quite hopeless at cunning plans, you know that? And don't you worry; I won't turn you in to the authorities. I happen to be a wizard myself. Lord Salazar D'Ornoir, at your service," the man said, giving her a short bow while still perching steadily on the horse. "And may I have the pleasure of knowing your name at last?"  
  
Relieved to know that Salazar was not a Muggle and wouldn't be letting her burn at the stake for witchcraft, she finally told him, "Rowena Partholain, at _your _service, milord."  
  
Salazar drew himself up straight on his horse and stared at her fiercely, a frown forming on his face, though Rowena could not see it. Was it _her?_ Could it really be ... _her? _  
A heavy silence hung between them as Salazar surveyed her face and strove to get a look at her neck for that one little sign that would prove the identity that she claimed was true, but her hair surrounded all parts of her neck.   
  
Perhaps if he used charm and guile he would be able to force it out of her ... "Dear me, Miss Partholain - or may I call you Rowena? - You _ do _understand that with one slip-up from a single witch, the entire wizarding world is put in jeopardy? Quite careless of you, if I may say so."  
  
"Well, I'm very sorry for leading the wizarding world into danger, but I was not using magic at the time of the discovery at all! It wasn't my fault in the slightest," was Rowena's haughty reply.  
  
"Ah, then it must have been that little birthmark on your neck that gave you away? It is shaped rather like an eagle, correct?" he quizzed, giving her a shark's grin.  
  
Rowena's eyes widened with shock and her hand slowly travelled to her throat where the birthmark was still obscured by her hair, confusing her as to how Salazar could possibly know about it. "You're not related to me by any chance, are you?"  
  
Salazar gave a short bark of a laugh. "Funny how I know more about you now than you probably ever knew about yourself. You've never seen me before and never even heard of me, and then all of a sudden, I know so much about you than you could ever have imagined. And I'm sure you don't want to be left in the dark so shall we get moving and inform you about it later?" he asked, and then paused. Rowena was sure that he grimaced as he said, "Ugh! That was a terrible pun, was it not? 'Left in the dark', indeed. Sometimes I wonder at my own sanity, not to mention my license in sarcasm."  
  
Rowena laughed and a bright clear tinkling filled the wood. "Thank you for informing me of that. But where exactly are you going to take me? The road through Mulfaver won't be too good for us at this time, and I haven't got any relatives or friends living nearby, and _ you're_ atrociously late for your meeting now, and it's all my fault - "  
  
"Honestly, madam, do you _ever_ know when to stop talking? Or were you a parrot in your past life?"  
  
"I beg your pardon?"   
  
"Oh, I suppose you haven't travelled much, Miss Partholain? If you did then you wouldn't have to grovel before me on the ground as I'd order my servants to do."  
  
The corners of Rowena's mouth turned down at this. "That is not a very pleasant way to treat the people who serve you. It would never be acceptable in _my_ home. And no, I have not travelled much at all, and I think I'll allow you to call me Rowena, since we're becoming so well-acquainted."  
  
"Well then, _Rowena_, can you ride? And I mean fully astride, not side-saddle, as it would be grievously uncomfortable for you and I would feel guilty for putting you through such pain!"  
  
"Well, I - I honestly don't know. I've never ridden a horse, you see."  
  
"It's not very difficult. We just need to keep you on top of him, that's all. Now, come here and give me your hand."  
  
Rowena walked across the leaf-littered ground to the horse and offered her hand to Salazar. She was no longer afraid of him, and as he grasped her rough hand in his gloved one, slid the other round her waist, and somehow hoisted her onto the horse's back behind himself, an arrow of delicious warmth shot through her body, right from her toes to her scalp, and she shuddered.   
  
"Are you all right?" asked Salazar with surprising gentleness, feeling the tremor go through her body.  
  
"Yes," Rowena whispered back, savouring the heat as it tingled on her skin. "Yes, I'm fine."  
  
"You'd better hold on to me, and don't loosen your grip. We've got a long way to go yet and I don't want you falling off and becoming a bloody mess," said Salazar. Then he heaved an exasperated sigh. "I did it again. Wonderful. I'm going insane. And I haven't even got an heir to the family name yet!"  
  
"Oh I'm sure that won't be a problem for you. There must be hundreds of women just waiting to get in line for the conception of an heir to your lordly belongings," observed Rowena, snaking her arms around his cloaked waist.  
  
_But none of them appeal to me as much as you_, thought Salazar with all the bitterness in the world. "_En avant, Minuit! _ Onwards!" he cried aloud, and before Rowena could look behind her, they were off almost faster than the speed of light.   
  
**  
AUTHOR'S NOTES:** Enjoyed that? Thought it sucked? Tell me about it! (Ah, I meant review actually). For those of you who think that I was heinously cruel about the Catholic Church, I do apologise, but it _did_ do all the things listed in this fic. My source was the following website: Prosecution or persecution? The real story of the witch-hunt   
  



	2. All is Not Fair in Love and War

_ False face must hide what the false heart doth know._  
~ Macbeth  
**  
  
CHAPTER TWO**  
**_All is Not Fair in Love and War_**

  
  
A frustrated sigh shattered the peaceful taciturnity in the library of Winthroe Castle. "What a load of old tosh!" growled Godric, closing _Isle of the Sultans_ with a snap. "And Salazar is officially _ one whole hour_ late!"  
  
"And that is officially the tenth time you have informed me of that in the space of fifteen minutes!" Helga told him, not looking up from her book.  
  
"Well, I'm _sorry_, but how much longer do we have to wait for him to show up? I'm tired, and now I'm hungry, too. Didn't I specifically state that he should be here by seven o'clock? Or is the man deaf?"  
  
"How should I know?" Helga angrily demanded of him. She was starting to lose her patience, though she was known as one of the most patient women who ever existed. "I'm not a Seer and I don't float around him all the time - "  
  
"Though Merlin knows you want to," smirked Godric.  
  
"I do not! Why do you always assume such things about me? Just because you might think that something is true, doesn't mean it is. You're not some omnicient deity, you know. Or has that escaped your arrogant little mind?"  
  
"Arrogant!" exclaimed Godric in indignation. "Your Salazar's the one who's arrogant! Listen to the way he boasts about those damned horses of his, not to mention his estate. You'd think he owned half the world!"  
  
Helga snorted. "And have you forgotten how you fawn over that black beauty he rides? Or how you charged around the halls of his manor, praising it like a little boy would do to Excalibur?"  
  
"I did nothing of the sort. And _Minuit_ isn't black; he's midnight blue," sulked Godric.  
  
But Helga smiled serenely and continued with her book. A few minutes later, they heard a soft pattering on the glass windows of the room which swiftly increased to a dull roar.  
  
"It's raining," Godric gloomily observed.  
  
"Nice to know that your observation skills are not confined to determining how late Salazar is," announced Helga.  
  
"Now he'll get wet and I'll finally be able to call him a bedraggled rat. That is, if he doesn't fall off his horse and break his neck."  
  
"Godric!" cried Helga, shocked. "How dare you say that about one of your dearest friends? You _know_ that he'd do almost anything for you! He'd give up his life to save your ungrateful hide!"  
  
Godric, who now looked even more sullen than before, mumbled something incoherent that Helga didn't quite catch, but she was sure that it was not something she especially wanted to hear. Just then, they both heard a door slam somewhere upstairs and feet thumping down the stairs and then suddenly, delighted feminine laughter, a deep male voice, and another door being shut forcefully.  
  
Helga and Godric both looked at each other and rolled their eyes. "He's arrived," they said in unison.  
  
"And he's not _my_ Salazar, Godric. Georgiana would happily stake a claim on him if he only said the word, so I needn't even bother thinking about it. Not that I'd want to, of course," added Helga.  
  
"_Of course_," mocked Godric, and they strode out of the library, Helga clutching her book close to her body with both hands.  
  
Emerging into the entrance hall of Winthroe Castle, they immediately spied four people, two of which were very wet. Helga easily recognised three of the people; one was Salazar, clothed in black and dripping water from his cloak and hair, still as unbelievably handsome as when he was dry. The other man was Arbuthnot, Godric's ancient and very devoted butler, who was hovering anxiously beside Salazar's shoulder, apparently trying to coax him into taking off his cloak.   
  
One of the women was, of course, Georgiana, laughing and fussing over Salazar as if her life depended on it. And the last woman was standing behind Salazar, looking forlorn and seemingly about to collapse. Her long chestnut hair was plastered to her neck and shoulders, and her slim body was drenched in rain.   
_  
Not another brunette beauty!_ thought Helga in anguish. _ Perhaps I should just let her fall down on the marble ... then the world will be one siren less!  
  
_But as good mostly triumphs over evil, so did benevolence overpower any malice that resided in Helga's chiefly virtuous soul, and drove her to exclaim, "What kind of host are you, Godric, that you leave a young woman to stand soaking wet, without any attention bestowed on her person?"  
  
The said young woman seemed to have realised that she was the subject of Helga's question because she protested, "Oh, no, no! I am quite all right, just a little wet ..."  
  
"Just a little wet?!" cried Godric, with every appearance of horror. "My dear, you will freeze to death if you do not change into something else! And indeed, Helga, how _could_ I be such a terrible host?"  
  
He briskly strode over to the woman and bowed most gallantly, a roguish twinkle in his eye. The woman tried to curtsy but as she bent her knees, she gasped and crumpled. Godric's arms shot out and caught her before she fell to the floor, holding her as she feebly protested and waved her hands.   
  
"Please! I won't faint, I'm all right ..." she croaked, her eyelids straining to close.  
  
"Indeed you are not, madam!" Godric roared. "Where are the rest of the servants, Arbuthnot?"  
  
And just then, a small army of people rushed into the room from the heavy oaken double door on the other side. Six of them there were in total: a plump grey-haired woman who was the very strict yet very kind housekeeper, Madam Markinsey; three young handmaidens and two equally young manservants. Instantly, all six began fussing over the state of the two arrivals, Madam Markinsey in the lead and sounding remarkably like an irate hen.  
  
"Quiet!" bellowed Godric, temper finally getting the better of him. Immediately, all the clamouring died down and only the sound of the water dripping from the guests could be heard. "Good. Now I can hear myself think," continued Godric, glaring round at his shamefaced servants. "As you all can see, we have two new guests who shall be staying at Winthroe for as long as they both shall please, and will be treated with the utmost respect and care. If word gets to me that one of you is disobeying my orders, you will be out of this castle for good before you can say 'Excalibur'. Is that understood?"  
  
Every servant in the room nodded silently, looking almost bored. Godric dished out the same speech to them whenever guests arrived at Winthroe Castle, and all of them could repeat it backwards word for word, they knew it so well. The late Lord Winthroe, Godric's father, had always given a speech to the servants of the castle who would be tending to the guests and gave them strict warnings, but the consequences of breaching Lord Winthroe's rules were never tested.   
  
All the servants of the castle were fiercely loyal to the family and always had been for generations, as the Winthroes had made it a point to only employ those who had been with the family for at least one generation. And, of course, there were no Muggle servants.  
  
"Madam," Godric addressed the housekeeper. "I ask you to prepare a room for ... er ..."   
  
"Rowena Partholain," supplied Salazar lazily.  
  
"Er ... yes, for Madam Partholain and ask cook to whip up something warm and perhaps something that will prevent illness," finished Godric, and the housekeeper bustled off.  
  
"You three," Godric pointed at the handmaidens, "will help Miss Helga and Miss Georgiana take Madam Partholain - "  
  
"She's young and unmarried, Godric," intervened Salazar nonchalantly. "You can stop calling her 'Madam'."  
  
Godric looked askance at Salazar for a few seconds and lifted his eyebrows inquisitively, but the other man was not paying him the slightest attention as he almost lazily eased his gloves off his hands. Georgiana was glaring with barely disguised suspicion at the unmoving figure of the woman still in Godric's arms, as though she might suddenly jump up and attack them all. Helga herself stared pointedly at Salazar, hoping to catch his eye but with no luck.   
  
"Right," said Godric. "Anyway, you five girls will take Miss Partholain upstairs and find her some clothes. And you boys," (he nodded at the manservants), "will look after our dear all-knowing Lord D'Ornoir."  
  
"Thank you Godric, but I don't need anyone to look after me," said Salazar. "I shall find a room in the west wing, as I always do. Expect me at dinner in twenty minutes."  
  
And with that, he stalked off across the marble floor without even removing his cloak, which was still dripping rainwater. But Helga wouldn't let him go without a couple of questions; her curiosity was burning her up inside very badly. So before Salazar had even put a foot on the first step of the grand marble staircase to the west wing, Helga hurried over to him and inquired, "Where and why did you pick her up, Salazar? And how did you know she was not married? Just because she has no ring on her finger, nor bear any other sign of matrimony, doesn't mean she isn't wedded."  
  
"And of course you had to check, didn't you, Helga?" answered Salazar without turning around. "Curiosity is a most objectionable quality of the female mind, and I'd be very surprised if neither you nor that irritating cow of a woman, Georgiana, would ask me something about Rowena."  
  
"So she's Rowena now, is she?" spat Helga. "You've only just met her and you're already on first-name terms with her! Or is that just your impertinence at work?"  
  
Salazar slowly turned around and gazed at Helga's angry face through lowered eyelids. "You don't know for sure if I've just met her. In fact, you don't know anything about her except all that I've told you, which isn't much, and I _could_ be lying ... you never know."  
  
"All that you've told us about her is her name, and I don't see much reason for you to lie about that!"  
  
"Then you, my dear Helga, are a very ignorant fool," pronounced Salazar unashamedly. "I think that perhaps you have a green-eyed monster settling itself inside you?" At Helga's blank expression, he added, "You are not, after all, immune to envy."  
  
All the warmth and pleasantness faded from Helga's eyes and she stood with a reddening face, pursed lips, and balled fists shaking at her sides. She felt murderous, worse than she ever had during a conversation with Salazar, and their conversations almost always ended with her being phenomenally angry. She hated him with all the passion and fire in her soul. Hated his beautiful silver-blonde hair and alluring grey eyes, his stupid expensive clothes, stupid fancy horses, stupid prosperous estates, and most of all, she hated his damned stupid way of remaining calm and controlled when she was boiling with rage!   
  
And then he raised one well-crafted eyebrow and all the rage trickled out of her, leaving her face pale, her lips dry and cracked, her hands hanging loosely. No, she could not really hate him. She was just tired of the way he tormented her, tired of the way he was always right about her, tired of the way he always tricked her and made her seem so stupid. She could never outsmart him, and she hated not him for it, but herself.   
  
"I see that you don't deny my - ah - accusation?" smirked Salazar.  
  
Helga sighed wearily. "You know what? I'm not going to take your bait this time. I'm tired and hungry, and I want to go to bed, meaning that I don't want to play these mind-boggling games of yours right now. You can accuse me of anything you want because I won't argue with you. And anyway, you'll probably be right as you always are."  
  
And with that, she turned around and dragged her feet back to where Godric was worrying about whether or not Rowena was strong enough to walk up the staircase to the east wing. Helga didn't notice that, as she walked away, Salazar's eyes followed her carefully and were filled with wonder, regret, and above all, a pain that she shared unknowingly.   
  
It wasn't too amazing that this escaped her notice since she even forgot to feel glad that Salazar didn't feel much affection towards Georgiana, and that would have been unimaginable to her had she been in a more cheerful state. But at that time, Helga didn't even want to think about Salazar because he reminded her of her very poor and very pathetic love life, which was one of the most hapless things in her tragic existence.  
  
**~ ~ ~**  
  
"Honestly Godric, you're starting to sound like Madam Markinsey!" remarked Georgiana with disgust. "Miss Partholain is perfectly capable of mounting the stairs and if she isn't, then Helga and I will assist her. And then we also have the three maids coming with us! Stop your fussing; it's really very unpleasant."  
  
"Yes, but maybe I really _should_ carry Miss Partholain upstairs ... you might choose the wrong room for her," argued Godric.  
  
"Oh ... please, good sir ... I don't mind what room you give me," Rowena told Godric earnestly. "And _do_ stop calling me Miss Partholain. I would much prefer it if you addressed me as Rowena."  
  
"I will, of course, and what a lovely name! What is the meaning of it? _Mysterious maiden_? _Divine vision_?" quizzed Godric energetically, while both Georgiana and Helga rolled their eyes.  
  
"Actually, it's _fair-haired_ in Celtic and _comely_ in Anglo-Saxon," provided Rowena, hiding a smile.  
  
"Well, I don't know about fair-haired but comely you certainly are!" enthused Godric.  
  
Rowena laughed, and Helga's jealousy grew with each echo of the sound that reminded her of delicate crystal bells. And it was that same jealousy that prevented her from observing the acrimony in Rowena's eyes which was shadowed as quickly as it was uncovered. "I do thank you, Master Winthroe - " began Rowena, but was cut short by Godric's insistence that she call him by his first name. And then Georgiana followed suit, obviously very pleased to be so close to "so lovely a creature" as she said. Then all eyes turned to Helga, evidently waiting for her to do the same, but the fatigued redhead was silent and stared sullenly back at each of them in turn.  
  
"Helga ..." Godric said pointedly, giving her a sharp look.  
  
But she fixed her eyes on Rowena and said through gritted teeth, with all the coldness she could muster, "You may continue to call me Miss Turnlovey."  
  
A very heavy silence ensued. All persons present could feel the tension in the room intensify until it was as thick as the walls of a truly impregnable fortress. Godric was glaring at Helga with sparks flying from his eyes, while Georgiana gaped at her with ill-disguised surprise. But Helga continued to survey Rowena with mounting dislike as the latter blushed and averted her eyes from Helga's stony gaze.  
  
It was Godric, however, who made the first move.  
  
Grasping Helga's elbow, he forcefully steered her out of the hallway after muttering, "Excuse us," and into the library from which they had come. Then he shut the door, spun Helga around to face him and let loose his anger.  
  
"Helga Turnlovey, what the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded.  
  
"What the hell is wrong with _you_, is the question that should be asked. In my opinion, I am behaving like a very normal human being ... I have a right to express my wish of not proceeding to first-name terms with _Miss Partholain_, am I not?"  
  
"But that doesn't mean you have to be so rude about it!" Godric put his face up close to hers for full effect. "And I don't understand why you have to refuse to be friends with her in the first place! You were perfectly agreeable before she came."  
  
"Yes, exactly! I was perfectly agreeable before she came," echoed Helga, her voice trembling. "Before she came ... "  
  
Godric frowned at her, understanding suddenly dawning in his bright green eyes. "Helga, you don't - _surely_ you don't think that - that - " he faltered, looking quite astonished. "Dearest Helga, tell me that you're not jealous of her ... "  
  
"Well, you're not as stupid and imperceptive as you make yourself out to be then," said Helga sourly.  
  
Godric sighed and scratched his dark hair, apparently thinking of what to say next that would be most tactful. "Well, you must know that you have nothing to be jealous of. Rowena could never replace you no matter how hard she tried," he assured her gently. "And someday, you might just become good friends. She doesn't seem to be anything like Georgiana, so you should get on with her better."  
  
But Helga was still staring morosely at the floor, a very gloomy expression marring her features. For Helga looked her best when she was happy; sadness only disfigured her beauty and gave other maidens, who looked good in all emotions, a better chance.  
  
"At least try, Helga. Just try. I don't think she's at all as bad as you think she is," murmured Godric soothingly. "Come, give us a hug." He wrapped his big arms around her, enveloping her in a cocoon of warmth and brotherly love. And Helga's despair began to flow out in angry little rivulets of tears.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Godric! I _am _a terrible person, I _am_ !" wailed Helga despondently. "I just thought that after you fell in love with her, you wouldn't need me anymore!"  
  
"Oh Helga," sighed Godric, patting her back as she sobbed into his shoulder. "What am I to do with you? That imagination of yours is far over cultivated and it's getting worse. Soon you'll be thinking that I want to murder you!"  
  
"Well, I wouldn't be too surprised actually," returned Helga, taking her handkerchief from her sleeve and wiping her face viciously with it. "After all the trouble that I've caused you with my quarrelsome spirit I'd half expect you to turn me out of the castle. But I promise that I'll try to be good. I really will try!" She gazed up at Godric's face hopefully, her face still showing all signs of a recent crying fit.  
  
"Then try to be nice to Rowena. You never know, Helga, you might just come to like her," suggested Godric. "Now come along, we can't keep everyone waiting." And he tugged her out of the library, red puffy eyes and all.  
  
"Well, finally!" exclaimed Georgiana. "Someone would've thought that you two were making wild and steamy love in there, judging by the time you stayed away."  
  
"That just shows the way your mind works, doesn't it?" observed Helga acidly.  
  
"All right, enough," intervened Godric, raising a hand between the two bristling women. "Both of you will escort Rowena to her room, help her change and then bring her down to the dining room in half an hour. Does roast lamb appeal to you?" He turned to Rowena.  
  
"Oh, yes!" enthused Rowena. She had not eaten any for nigh onto twelve months and she would have loved to roll her tongue around the lovely meat again.   
  
"Then I shall see you all at dinner." And with that, Godric strode away to the kitchen, the housekeeper and manservants trailing behind him silently.  
  
When he had gone, Georgiana turned to Rowena, smiling pleasantly. "Shall we go to your room now?"  
  
"Yes, that would be good," agreed Rowena, smiling back, although a degree less warmer.   
  
Helga steeled her resolve and kept repeating her promise to Godric in her mind, as she began ascending the ornate crimson-carpeted staircase to the east wing on the right side of Rowena, Georgiana being on the left, and the handmaidens following behind them.   
  
Many of the decorations inside Winthroe Castle were either a deep red colour or a warm gold, and there were not a few old-looking tapestries, vases and paintings gathering dust in the east wing. No one ever reminded the servants to dust the many rooms of the castle, and they themselves very seldom remembered to.   
  
When Helga first moved into the castle, she was surprised that Madam Markinsey, didn't order the whole castle to be scrubbed and dusted from the doorstep to the roof. She later found out that the old wrinkled housekeeper had a memory worse than a goldfish because the latter was constantly forgetting Helga's rightful name and adopting various others instead.  
  
But even in its dust-covered state, Winthroe Castle was a very grand and impressive residence in which the inhabitants were very proud to live. Godric had not told Helga how many rooms there were in total but she estimated over a hundred, what with its many levels, turrets and towers.  
  
As they walked down the corridor, Rowena turned her head to look at the various paintings and tapestries on the walls, occasionally commenting on one if it caught her fancy. Before long, they reached Helga's suite and Rowena, ignorant of that fact, chose the elegant blue-themed one across from it. She only realised it the next morning but never really regretted it, for such was her nature to believe that every action and event had a special purpose.  
  
Helga, of course, did not share the same view and was ready to change suites with Georgiana who seemed to have overcome her previous wariness of Rowena and was on the point of declaring her the best friend she ever had, though they hadn't even known each other a whole day. She swallowed her words, however, when she saw the pleading look Rowena shot her from behind Georgiana.  
  
"I trust you don't snore too loudly?" Helga raised one eyebrow in Rowena's direction. "I would hate to have to wake you up in the middle of the night."  
  
Rowena smiled almost cheekily. "I trust the same of you. I don't snore at all so you needn't worry about me."  
  
"Likewise," was Helga's curt reply.  
  
"Shall we get dressed for dinner then?" burst out Georgiana, obviously flustered by the tension between the two other women. "We can all meet here when we're done and go downstairs together." And she walked off down the hall to her own room.  
  
Rowena turned to Helga. "Do you think you could possibly lend me one of your garments for the evening? I'm afraid I don't have anything suitable to wear and this dress won't dry in time." Seeing Helga's pursed lips she added, "I won't keep it, I'll return it to you before I go to bed."  
  
Helga ran her eyes over Rowena's figure. "You'd better borrow something from Georgiana. My clothes would all be too large for you." And with a toss of her head, she turned and stepped into her room, slamming the door as loud as she could.  
  
"Well!" exclaimed Rowena, shaking with rage. "All right then!" She stormed off down the corridor, shooting angry glances at Helga's door every few seconds. She knocked loudly on Georgiana's door, sighing in frustration.  
  
Georgiana appeared in nothing but her chemise, making it very obvious that she hoped it wasn't Rowena who knocked. "Oh, it's you," she said, her smile wilting slightly. "Is everything all right?"  
  
"May I borrow one of your garments for the evening?" Rowena asked without preamble.  
  
"Well, of course!" squealed Georgiana gleefully, opening the door further to let Rowena in. "You and I must be about the same size! But you have so much more grace than I do!" She waited, seemingly hoping that Rowena would deny it and insist that Georgiana had the grace that she, Rowena, had always wanted but never attained.  
  
She waited in vain. Rowena merely strode in and silently stared around the room.  
  
"I was planning on wearing something red," said Georgiana, looking slightly put-out as she closed the door and walked over to her open wardrobe, which was overflowing with different coloured dresses, shawls and bonnets. "What do you think of this one?" She was holding to her body a long-sleeved maroon gown with no shoulders but a plunging neckline and sequined bodice instead.  
  
Rowena shrugged nonchalantly. "It's a lovely dress," was all she said.  
  
"You can wear this grey one." Georgiana tossed her an equally elegant dress made of silk with a high collar and almost translucent sleeves. She obviously wanted to be the centre of attention tonight.  
  
Reluctant to change clothes in front of Georgiana, Rowena thanked her and hurried out of the room, ignoring the other woman's protests. She didn't feel like being an exhibition at that moment.  
  
She changed nimbly and dried her hair with a simple spell, letting it tumble about her shoulders in chestnut waves. The length of the dress thankfully prevented from the state of her shoes being revealed but Rowena tidied them up as much as she could with her wand anyway.  
  
When she came out of her room she saw that Helga was already waiting in a beautiful brown dress with a high collar three quarters around her neck that opened her bosom in a W shape. Her red curls were tied back with a brown ribbon, though a couple were left to fall around her face prettily. Apparently Helga wanted to make an impression as well. She was staring into space and didn't notice Rowena until she said, "That's a beautiful dress."  
  
Helga blinked, looking surprised. She quickly set her face into a stony expression once she saw Rowena. "Oh?"  
  
"Yes. It suits you very well," said Rowena earnestly.  
  
Helga must have taken her words to heart and realised her sincerety because she let a small smile escape from the fortress of her mouth. "I suppose Georgiana is planning to be a temptress tonight?"  
  
Rowena grinned. "Indeed she does, and very boldly too. Such fanfare I have never seen before."  
  
"You haven't seen the least of it, I'm sure." Helga rolled her eyes. "On special occasions she's positively demonic."  
  
"Who's demonic?" called Georgiana, closing her door and walking upto them, her hair piled on top of her head and a heady fragrance emanating from her.  
  
"That perfume, now let's go! We're already late as it is." Helga ushered Georgiana through the corridor and down the stairs, not noticing that Rowena remained standing by her door. Just before she set her foot on the stairs, Helga turned and smiled in an exasperated fashion. "Oh, come on!"  
  
It seemed that those three words were the ones that Rowena had been waiting for because she rushed to Helga's side and smiled widely. Helga linked her arm through Rowena's and together they walked down the stairs.  
  
**~ ~ ~  
  
** Dinner was a quiet affair at Winthroe Castle that night. At least, it was for everyone but Georgiana who made a point of chattering with Salazar almost unceasingly, which caused Helga and Rowena to exchange many grins.  
  
Godric noticed this as he remarked, "You two have made it up, have you? Thought you would. Helga's not one to stay mad at anybody for more than a couple of hours."  
  
"I'm the exception to that rule, though," remarked Salazar tartly. "She's been mad at me ever since we first met."  
  
"I have not, you liar," retorted Helga. "You just make me mad more than anyone else."  
  
"And we all know the reason for that," said Georgiana, cutting her food. Everyone turned to look at her. "Oh, come on, it's so obvious. Just because Salazar doesn't love you, Helga, doesn't mean he's a bad fellow."  
  
"More lamb, anyone?" asked Godric loudly, hopefully peering around.  
  
"On the contrary," Georgiana continued calmly, "he's simply splendid, aren't you, darling?" She smiled sweetly at Salazar who stared at her rather boredly. Disappointed by his lack of interest, she went back to diligently slicing her food. "You're just not his type, Helga."  
  
"Oh, and I suppose you are?" Helga shot back.  
  
"How about some more wine?" Godric almost shouted, lifting the bottle.  
  
"Actually I've always preferred blondes," said Salazar almost disinterestedly.  
  
"Well, there's nothing wrong with a little variety in your life," persisted Georgiana.  
  
She and Helga glowered at each other for a few seconds before Godric roared, "Don't fill yourselves up too much, there's still pudding to come!"  
  
"For goodness sake, Godric, no need to shout." Georgiana glared at him accusingly. "Have some decorum, dear brother. And I won't be having any pudding, I'm too full already." She pushed away her full plate and leaned back in her chair as though tired.  
  
"But you've hardly eaten anything!" protested Godric, seizing the opportunity to steer the conversation away from dangerous waters. "How can you be full?"  
  
"If you haven't noticed, Godric, I am a lady." Georgiana sniffed disdainfully and folded her hands on her lap.  
  
Helga snorted. "Just because you want to impress Salazar doesn't mean you have to hurt Cook's feelings."  
  
Georgiana looked livid. "Who ever said I wanted to impress Salazar?"  
  
"Well, if you're not trying to impress him, you must be trying to live up to your reputation as an arrogant, self-centered harlot," replied Helga composedly.  
  
"Oooh!" Georgiana leaped up, her face red with anger. "I'm sick of this! Sick of it, you hear?" And she stormed out of the room, her hands balled into fists.  
  
"Shouldn't someone go after her?" Rowena asked tentatively.  
  
"No," Helga and Godric said in unison.  
  
"She always makes a scene whenever I'm around," explained Salazar airily. "Probably hopes I'll run after her and swear my undying love for her." He took a sip of wine from his goblet and smirked. "It's very difficult being a wanted man."  
  
**~ ~ ~  
**   
  
When the whole process of dinner had been completed (_sans_ Georgiana) the party moved to the drawing room adjacent to the dining room. It was decorated in the same colours as the former (crimson and gold) and in the same style (mahogany furniture and velvet upholstery). All the windows were covered by floor-length drapes and a fire blazed in the enormous hearth.  
  
Helga plonked herself down on the sofa and Rowena seated herself beside her, while Godric chose the armchair opposite them and Salazar stretched out on the _chaise longue_ on the other side of the room. The silence was broken only by the crackling of the fire.  
  
Finally - "Salazar tells me that he picked you up in Mulfaver Wood," Godric addressed Rowena.  
  
Rowena glanced briefly at Salazar's supine form before answering, "Yes, that's correct."  
  
"I take it that you lived there with your parents?" said Godric.  
  
"I did indeed."  
  
Godric seemed to mull over this information in his mind because he stared at the floor and rubbed his hands slowly. He couldn't seem to find the words to say what he wanted. "And - and I suppose they told you - well - what they should have told you?" He lifted his eyes to Rowena's frowning face.  
  
"I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean," she said warily.  
  
"What Godric is trying to say is that you are not a peasant or Muggle-born," Salazar put in. He sat up. "You've got an estate in the country and a healthy amount of monetary wealth."  
  
This only made Rowena frown even more. "I have got nothing of the sort," she said in a low voice. "My _Muggle_ parents and I lived in a cottage. We barely had enough to eat."  
  
"Well, in that matter I suppose Salazar and I are the only ones who can give any explanation," said Godric. "The Partholains may have lived among Muggle peasants but they never were like them. The Partholain lineage can be traced back to King Arthur's time. In fact," he raised his black eyebrows and cocked his head to one side, "in your veins runs the blood of Nimue, the Lady of the Lake."  
  
"The late Partholains - your parents - were on the run from the one called Morgan Le Fay," said Salazar, lying back onto the _chaise_. "Morgan originally had nine priestesses serving her and her cause. These priestesses were forbidden to have amorous relations with anyone, but one of them fell in love with a Knight of the Round Table. The priestess eloped, Morgan was enraged and put it into her head to punish the priestess and her lover." He paused. "However, the priestess put a charm around herself and her lover which extended to their descendants, including your parents and yourself, so that Morgan could never find them."  
  
"Perhaps she did succeed, "said Rowena with a stony face, "my parents are dead."  
  
"You, however, are not," Salazar pointed out, "which means that your parents died of entirely natural causes. If Morgan got her hands on you, she'd kill you as well."  
  
"May I ask how is it that you knew about this and I did not?" Rowena asked, her eyes flying from Godric to Salazar.  
  
Godric glanced at Salazar and opened his mouth as though about to say something, but Salazar beat him to it. "We have connections," he said in a tone that allowed no further debate. "If you wish, I could take you to your estate tomorrow."  
  
"I'd like that." Rowena smiled faintly at Salazar.  
  
Helga, who had remained wholly silent and still throughout the entire revelation, now jumped up and clapped her hands. "And now I think it a good idea for us to adjourn. It is past midnight. Goodnight, gentlemen. Come, Rowena!" She grabbed Rowena's arm and forcefully propelled her out of the room.  
  
She did not let go of Rowena's arm until the latter had closed the door of her bedchamber after wishing Helga a pleasant sleep. Helga slowly shut her own bedroom door and leaned her forehead against it. A fat tear squeezed itself from under each of her eyelids and quickly trickled down her cheeks. Helga grimaced and furiously wiped them away. There was nothing to cry for. She was stupid to do so. She cried too much anyway.  
  
Helga undid the clasp holding her hair up in a bunch and the red curls tumbled around her shoulders. She stood in front of the mirror, gazing solemnly at her reflection, but quickly turned away and began to prepare for sleep.  
  
Yes, there was nothing to cry for. Yes, she was stupid to do so. Yes, she cried too much anyway. But as she lay on her bed in her flowered, cotton nightgown she lost all pretenses; she turned on her stomach and stuffed a corner of her pillow in her mouth to deaden the sound as she wept.  
  



End file.
